


Aching

by RobinBanksAndScoobySnax



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Celebrations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 05:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2840438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinBanksAndScoobySnax/pseuds/RobinBanksAndScoobySnax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Brazil 2008.<br/>Lewis wants to celebrate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aching

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, it's my first time writing this kind of thing and my first time posting, so constructive criticism/comments readily accepted.

He aches.

No. Aches is not the right word. Aches would mean… he can’t explain it, but he knows aches is not the right word.

Lying alone on the bed in the hotel room, Felipe cannot describe how he feels, but it is not good. He should be at home now, with his family, but he knows how disappointed they are. They’ll try to hide it, of course, but they won’t be able to. So he’s staying at the hotel tonight, just for tonight, so he’s alone with his thoughts.

There’s a knock at the hotel room door, short and sharp. Felipe sits up, the sudden movement (and maybe a little more alcohol than he would like to admit) making his head spin, but it quickly settles.

In the semi-darkness of the dimly lit room, he peers at the door. There’s silence again, then another short, sharp knock.

Felipe can’t think who would be calling, everybody out celebrating the end of the season or already on their way home, escaping the madness. He’s already told everyone who would think of bothering him that he’s having an early night, insisted that they – just this once – leave him alone.

Of course, there’s only one way to find out who’s calling.

Wobbling a little (maybe he’s had a lot more alcohol than he would like to admit) Felipe makes his way to the door. He doesn’t even bother to check to see if he looks decent before answering, figuring that anybody who has come to disturb him on today of all days deserves to see this mess.

“Lewis?”

The Brit is dressed up to go out and looks strange stood in the hotel corridor. Lewis smirks and slides into the hotel room, flicking on the light and momentarily blinding Felipe.

The Brazilian lets the door swing shut, watching Lewis saunter around the small hotel room as if he owns the place, his hand trailing along everything he touches.

“You should be out celebrating,” Felipe says, swallowing the tears that are threatening to escape _again_. He’s already cried enough for one day.

“I am,” Lewis declares.

“For sure, you will not find any alcohol in here,” Felipe says. “You are too late for that.”

“ _For sure_ , I’m not looking for alcohol,” Lewis says, the wicked smile still in place as he stops wandering and sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. “I’m looking for you.”

Felipe can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. That, and the alcohol, makes him feel a little sick.

“I was just going to bed,” he lies, though Lewis doesn’t need to know about the hours of wallowing in self-pity he has planned.

“I was hoping you would celebrate with me,” Lewis says.

“Have said there is no alcohol left here,” Felipe says again. “Go and have fun somewhere else.”

 _Somewhere where I’m not_.

“Don’t be like that,” Lewis says, pushing himself off of the bed. “We can have some fun right here, can’t we? Alcohol or not?”

“Why are you-?” Felipe doesn’t have time to finish the question, Lewis cutting him off by smashing their lips together. Felipe pulls away almost instantly, the disgust clear on his face and the strong taste of alcohol on his lips. He’s not the only one who’s been drinking.

“Out.”

“Kimi said you did this for him when he won,” Lewis says. “It’s only fair if you reward me too.”

Of course. Felipe had been an idiot to think Kimi would never say anything about what had happened at the end of last year. Why he’d told Lewis of all people, Felipe couldn’t be sure. Probably drunk…

“So,” Lewis says, sliding his hands under the waist band of the joggers Felipe’s wearing. “What do you say?”

The alcohol’s clear in his eyes, blurring the gleam there.

“Get out,” Felipe says again, stepping away from Lewis.

Lewis closes the gap and presses his lips against Felipe’s neck this time. When the smaller man tries to pull away, the taller keeps him still, holding his head in place with one hand whilst the other disappears into the joggers.

Felipe stumbles back, landing on the bed. Lewis lands on top of him, but quickly repositions himself so he’s kneeling over the smaller man.

“How many of the other _champions_ have you done this for?” Lewis asked, unbuttoning the pants he’s wearing. “Fernando? Michael?”

Felipe shakes his head, squirming backwards, up the bed. The ceiling looks like it’s spinning and maybe that last mini bottle of whatever it had been should have been left in the mini bar after all. Lewis appears over him, winning smile in place. He drags his tongue over his bottom lip, watching the panic on Felipe’s face.

“Oh come on. It won’t be that bad.”

 

Lewis collapses onto Felipe, his breath hot and sticky on the other man’s neck. They lie there for a moment, just listening to each other breathing, before Felipe feels Lewis drag himself off of him. His eyes are screwed shut and he doesn’t plan on opening them until the Brit is gone.

The weight off his chest should feel like a relief but it doesn’t. The ruffle of fabric disturbs the silence and Felipe listens to Lewis dress himself. Lying perfectly still, he can feel the sweat drip down the side of his neck, pooling at the base.

The bed sheets are ruined. He can tell that much without even opening his eyes.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Lewis says once he’s dressed.

The bed dips again and Felipe opens his eyes. Lewis is still smirking as his fingers gently brush Felipe’s bruised wrists. Their eyes meet, Lewis’ still dark and filled with lust, Felipe’s filled with tears. Felipe expects him to look away, but he doesn’t, brushing Felipe’s sweat soaked hair out of his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says, gently. “Motivation to win again next year. I’ll be back Felipe, just wait.”

Lewis stands, his finger’s trailing over Felipe’s hands and Felipe wants to sit up with him, but cannot move. He doesn’t move as he watches Lewis Hamilton, world champion, leave his hotel room. The Brit switches the light off before he shuts the door, leaving Felipe in the semi darkness he found him in.

Wincing at the movement, Felipe rolls onto his side, away from the door, and, not for the first time that night, bursts into tears.

He aches.

Yes, that is the right word now.

He aches.


End file.
